


Hitchhiker

by Ms_Marquez



Series: Mythopoesis [2]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Consensual Sex, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Phoenixes, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Triggers, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26483641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Marquez/pseuds/Ms_Marquez
Summary: Please check tags & the note before reading.This piece is in the same universe as my first fic, titled ‘Desperate Creatures.’ While the previous fic was canon compliant, this one is not.Hitchhiker:When Nicole comes back from the dead, an ancient spirit of lore hitchhikes its way through to Purgatory and the young couple’s life. How will the gang deal with this primeval, symbiotic creature, who loves Brooklyn Nine Nine, pale ales, and being inside women?This may be the nuttiest thing I’ve attempted.
Relationships: Jeremy Chetri & Nicole Haught, Jeremy Chetri & Waverly Earp, Nicole Haught & Doc Holliday, Nicole Haught & Rachel Valdez (Wynonna Earp TV), Waverly Earp & Doc Holliday, Waverly Earp & Nicole Haught, Waverly Earp & Wynonna Earp, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp & Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp/Doc Holliday
Series: Mythopoesis [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956388
Comments: 27
Kudos: 61





	1. Traveling Fire

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Non-Graphic reference to/mentions of sexual assault, suicide, violence, murder. There's non-gratituous consensual sex as well. 
> 
> These characters belong to Beau Smith, Emily Andras, SyFy and IDW Entertainment.
> 
> I take liberty with myth and history - think of it as poetic licence. The 1st chapter introduces the original creature-character, how it comes to be a part of Nicole. 
> 
> If certain parts or characters come off as sexist or limited and boxed-in by their understanding of sex and/or gender roles, know that it has to do with the ethos they belong to, and the vocabulary such an ethos would afford them - it in no way reflects my politics. 
> 
> This will be a few chapters long.
> 
> I don't think this trope has been used quite like this, I hope it engages and entertains.
> 
> I’m new to writing and it’s really encouraging when people interact with the fic, so leave a like and/or a comment.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Be critical, but kind. 

* * *

Prometheus could eat a bag of hairy minotaur dicks!

The dimwit – what an ironic and perfect way to describe the dick-of-deities – stole fire from the Gods, but didn’t really have a plan for after. Afraid he’d be hunted down and put up in chains, the Titan hid it in the elements for the mortals to find. And, find it they did, millions of years later.

Till then… _She_ is amorphous.

Neither wholly of body, nor entirely of spirit. But, her consciousness is all the evidence she needs of her _being_. Words, feelings - mostly rage, drift around in her id, sometimes they break the surface. But, mostly they wait their turn to be fished out and felt. She blinks in and out of _conscious existence_. It is the lot of those stuck in the blue ether of the forgotten. But, the likes of Prometheus can only delay her and her sisters; the watchers, the wearers, the survivors. 

Phoebe waits, she bides her time; she is ancient, wise, and angry. 

* * *

**_Somewhere in South Africa, a million years ago (give or take a few 100,000)_ **

Her daughter, Iya, had rolled around in the wet earth again, playing with the children of the settlement, finding respite from the scorching sun. They’d made a new game. They would cover their faces with the thick wet earth and guess who was who. A fun game for the little ones, but so much work for Khu and the other mothers. She went to their shared cave, ushering all the little monsters in. The mothers would have to rub the drying muck off their faces and bodies, precious time taken away from the early evening activities. The men would not be pleased. 

Khu took a big leaf from the cave floor and spit on it, bringing it to Iya’s face, all gentleness forgotten as she rubbed hard to get the caked dirt out. When Khu was little, they listened to their mothers, not listening would get you eaten by the big cats. But, kids these days, she sighed a big exhale. She picked a bug out from near Iya’s eye and tried to kill it with her thumbs, but it kept escaping. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, pushing Iya onto her bum on the cave floor. She’d have to wait till her mother dispatched this critter. 

They had a ‘no creepy-crawlies on the cave floor’ policy. Many suns and moons ago, Nim’s child had died in the night, and in the morning a crawler had come out of its ear, bloody; they did not know how such a small thing took the baby, but the mothers of the den would not take any chances. If they could help it, the cave had no crawlers. 

Khu went near the mouth of the cave and picked up two rocks, putting the crawler on one, and hitting it with the other. Once, twice, thrice she hit it, and out flew the hot flashes of the sun and landed on the dry leaves and twigs at her feet. The magic quickly took hold as the sparks became a small flame. It singed the hair on her legs - so hot, hotter than the day and the sand beneath her feet.

From the jaws of the small flame _she_ arose, Phoebe, a wisp of smoke, freed by mortal hands, ready to once again taste of the middle world. She wrapped herself around this woman, little by little, as the mortal teetered, afraid; her mind fracturing to let the _self_ and the _other_ meet. This woman, _Khu?_ will be her new home and her bond-mate. 

Phoebe looked into her soul, assuaging all fear and panic with a wave of affection, of oneness, _“together”_ she said, and Khu understood. She looked through Khu’s memories and settled on a deep warm feeling, the image of a child – _Iya_ , the words _“daughter,” “mine”_ settled in her consciousness. For the first time since the birth and death of many ages, the fire spirit had things, people to care for.

With the passage of time, Phoebe realises that her connection with Khu, though precious, could never be as deep and vivid as she wanted. Life for her mortal is hard and communicating with her is tough. Her intellect is limited, it’s length and breadth defined by survival. Khu does not recognise _self_ beyond safety, sound beyond nature, and love beyond family. Their relationship is more like mother and daughter, she teaches Khu her reflection in the water, and the science of fire, but she longs for an equal. 

One day, a band of men no one recognises enter their cave. The able bodied men in Khu’s settlement are out on a hunt.

They’re brutal, like men are. There is a faint echo for help in her mind. Phoebe tries to take over, Khu's limbs begin to glow with the unforgiving heat of destruction mortal men have not seen in eons. But, she is afraid, she flinches, her body shrinks, she is unable to give herself over to the Phoenix. 

Khu has made a costly mistake. 

They take what they want, they kill who they please, and they leave Khu bleeding, but with breath in her body. It is enough for Phoebe still, she heals her in fire. In the midst of cooling corpses, her body becomes flame and ash, it rains grey till a tornado of light is born out of nothing, gathering the life and energy hanging in the air and putting it back together. 

She is herself once more, at least in body, but Khu’s mind is never whole again.

Phoebe feels her accusations - _“didn’t save Iya. Dead. Dead. Everyone.”_ They manifest in a guttural pain, an aching throat, a tight chest. Some hurt is beyond healing. Khu stops talking to Phoebe, she is locked in a dark mind-cave, alone. 

One day Khu walks from the plains to the edge and beyond, knowing she will not fly and Phoebe is returned to the fire. 

This is the first of many goodbyes. 

* * *

**_The Hellas, 13th Century BCE (maybe, no promises)_ **

She is young, with a rich father, and gold men and women can only dream of. She is bred to be a queen someday, but for now she is a Princess. She has heard stories of women in the lesser Hellas - living corpses, puppeteered for the greed of the men in their lives, traded on every turn for labour, food, pleasure; warm bodies and animated wombs. She would die...no, _no_ \- she would kill before she was forced to live such a life. 

She did not believe in the prison of dignity, nor delayed gratification, but she did believe in strategy, in waiting. This was Sparta, men and women took their pleasure, but they had the good sense to be discrete. That is how she found herself in the blacksmith’s hut, on the pretext of going for a swim with the women of her household. There was no feeling more exquisite than a warm and sweating man between her thighs, driving her higher and higher towards a weightless heat in the pit of her stomach. This _must_ be what flying feels like.

He was a beautiful man, perfect - made by the gods. He could move slower than some of his counterparts, a rare talent to be sure. Her chest heaved to the rhythm he set, blood rose in her ears like the drum chorus at a sacrifice. This would not do, she pushed him with a forearm, gaining leverage, flipping them over with him still firmly in her. The jolt made them lose a beat as his hips rose in rebellion, finding somewhere new and deeper inside her. Her body bowed towards the heavens as her hands found purchase on his shins. She would ride him like a king, his chariot. They raced one another as he pulled her on top of him, their chests scraping deliciously, erratically - she kissed him then, her tongue snaking in slowly, savouring him, he tasted of grapes and the summer. 

They built towards a white explosion together, and danced over the edge – taking, giving of themselves, laughing their release, sighing their satisfaction. She would have a little more time with him yet, as lovers do, to map the stars on each other’s’ bodies. The sudden cold gave her goose flesh. Ever the attentive lover, he left their nest with surprising agility, his olive skin glistening in the pale yellow of dying embers. A brave man, he stoked the fire naked.

He woke something more than just the flames. 

* * *

Phoebe had finally found an equal in Clytemnestra, “Cly” for short. Her bond-mate grew up with stories of Gods and monsters, spirits and beasts. So, she warmed to the notion of a healing, intelligent fire-spirit sharing her mind and body rather quickly. They’d been bonded for almost half a decade now, and through her eyes the fire-spirit had seen the many riches this place, these people and this culture had to offer. Cly was a strong woman with strong appetites and the Phoenix loved her for it. Sparta was unique, marriages were matrilocal - she would keep her home, her hearth and the love of her family close to her.

The future Queen was forever compared to her sister, Helen, who possessed a beauty not of this world. Phoebe saw how different the two really were. Clytemnestra was a beauty in her own right, but she was aglow with an intelligence that was beyond her years and her sex. While Helen hid her intelligence well, Cly could not help but wear her’s in her eyes and on her tongue. 

In _this_ world, all women were cursed in their own ways. Her bond-mate was born into a battlefield. 

She married a meek but loving man by the name of Tantalus. Phoebe counselled her many times over, he was lovely, but her light outshone his by many decades. She had a son by him, pampered, well loved, short-lived. 

Two brothers from Mycenae, Agamemnon and Menelaus, came seeking asylum on Spartan shores, their lands stolen by a murderous man who shared their blood and temperament. King Tyndareus, bound by the custom of Xenia, extended a hand of friendship and hospitality. Before long, they fell madly in love with the two sisters, Helen and Menelaus began to court, while Cly became more and more bold in outward shows of displeasure and discomfort at the Mycenaean heir’s advances. She was a married woman, first born of her father’s blood and an heir in her own right. _She_ was to be the Queen of Sparta, and her husband King, when her father would abdicate. 

But _now_ , Agamemnon’s destiny would overpower her’s. 

He waits with the patience of a seasoned hunter, builds bonds of love and kinship between their families and entices her father with promises of a greater kingdom with stronger allies in the shape of a Mycenae won back with _their_ gold. Tantalus’ fortune begins to look smaller, his influence within the palace walls - shrinking. On a hot summer day, when Cly goes to join the weavers of the village, with the blessing of her father, he cuts her husband and child down. 

She is free to be his slave. 

* * *

There will be war, Agamemnon will lead the charge for his brother. Her spineless sister chose to be brave, while she, a woman of wit, wisdom, philosophy, justice is stuck with a lout rutting on top of her like a drunken soldier. He is not a generous man - Agamemnon, not with his servants, or his slaves, and certainly not in bed. He has given her three beautiful children, but he will take more, yet. 

All history is cosmic irony. 

He is about to fight a war to defend Menelaus’ claim to Helen. But, many years ago, Agamemnon committed the same crime as Paris. Only he chose to spill blood and take away _her_ choice - he used murder and brute force. But, unlike the Mycenaeans, Tantalus did not get a chance to defend his honour; retribution forgotten as those of his blood and bone were too far, too small and too weak to fight for him. 

_This_ man is the chaos in her soul, a storm uprooting parts of who she is - more and more unrecognisable to her spirit-companion. 

Clytemnestra understands war, she understands politics, she understands kingdoms, and she understands gold. When he _lies_ to her, manipulates her - makes her watch their Iphigenia ritually slaughtered at Aulis without a chance to bind her heart and protect it from the pain of loss, she understands hate. 

Agamemnon goes to war without an inkling of having started one back at home. She drinks, she fucks, she falls into bed with a man just as cruel as her husband, just as ambitious. There is no older wisdom in the world - a prick, is a prick, is a prick. 

Phoebe feels Clytemnestra's heart rot, she feels her turning into the men she despises, emulating their cruelty. She does not like what they are becoming. Her insides always scream with an unsettling, disorienting heat. The Phoenix drowns in her rage; they have lost their equilibrium.

In time, he is back. Fat with wine, gold, and whores. A hero of the Hellas. 

She kills him. She does it when he is naked, wet and defenseless, just as her babe was all those years ago in a chamber inside the Spartan palisade. It is justice no court would give her, so she _takes_ it. She kills him in retribution for her children and her kingdom, she cannot rule while his blood is still warm – she has ambition too.

But, then, she goes to kill the soothsayer, an innocent in the game of conquest. Cursed to watch men slaughter men, and enslave women. Phoebe tries to stop her, holds her back, breaks the covenant of consent. They’ve _never_ warred like this. It is not good enough, she is not strong enough, Clytemnestra’s rage rises and sings in her blood, she takes the sword, ready to bathe in sin. 

Phoebe severs the bond right then, unwilling to share the hands of a butcher - no matter how wronged or how righteous.

She learns - even love and loyalty have limits. 

* * *

**_Schoonhoven, Holland_ ** **_, late 1500s_ **

She hops from fire to fire, sharing many faces, never guiding one through its true death – the world is no longer a novelty. Her warmth is replaced by an empty heat; she is not hungry anymore. She sees men and women kill often, where words would do, and they _always_ kill for the wrong reasons. Their pettiness bores her, quells her interest to partake of the flesh.

Till she watches _her_ – Marigje. A sister healer, an apothecary ahead of her time, intelligent in soul, curious of mind. She is a sharp blade among dull swords. A seeker; the hunger returns. 

It takes the fire spirit time to explain to the folk healer, who, or rather, what she is. No she is not Satan or some other demonic, sex crazed, hoofed and horned beast. She barely even felt lust, she craved experience, intelligence, loyalty, she offered love and compassion, and worshipped at the altar of logic. They went back and forth for hours. The mortal had good questions – if Phoebe believed in the sciences like Marigje did, what was she herself made of? How could she be anything _but_ magic? She remembered Khu then, felt a strange kinship to her in a moment that separated them by millions of years, for she had never once pondered her existence either. _When_ she began, _what_ made her, _why_ did she crave the things she craved?

Thus began a thrilling partnership. Her bond-mate fearlessly gave of herself, to test the limits of their bond and their cumulative abilities. They could manifest heat and fire, it would pain the mortal, but nothing a little healing couldn’t fix. The healing though could be called upon by the mortal half of the bond, but the fire-spirit must answer. She would not be a weapon, freely wielded by her mortal companion – _no_ – they would have to move together, keep pace with one another. Though they were two minds and two intellects constantly flowing into each other, they had the strength of one body. This they learnt the hard way after the mortal healer punched a tree and broke a finger. 

* * *

She had taken up with a man for six months when she was much, much younger, before Phoebe burnt her way through hundreds of thousands of years of history and humankind and became a part of her. Marigje learnt quickly that she preferred his mind to his body. He became her teacher, traveling through this corner of the world, his mind filled with curiosities. She knew then, that she could not live without dedicating her life to unlocking them. Knowledge was her drug of choice, learning was tedious but rewarding. Her encounter with him also brought with it another revelation – she preferred the company of the fairer sex.

The young widow who came back to live with her maa and paa. The milk maid, the woman who kept Aelbert’s household, the meat seller’s wife. She had sampled many, but never often and never for long. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t what kept her awake at night. Give her plants, tree barks and insects over a quim any day. She was built to know things.

When she joined with Phoebe, she was not young, _her_ Marigje. Within just a few years, her youth had begun to fade and her eyes were losing their lustre and sharpness, though her mind raced faster than the hearts of many a young lovers. But, she was still treated to the occasional rendezvous.

On a dreary winter evening, when the wind spoke over human voices, Marigje was called on by the mistress of Geervliet house – her stomach was ailing her. Her husband was conveniently two towns over and trading peat, drunk and looking to catch himself the most fashionable and exotic genital malady on offer at the local night-house. Piety was a woman’s business. A quick examination of the patient revealed that her ailment was somewhere south of her supple belly.

They tumble into the mistress’ marriage bed, their breaths heavy, bodies writhing in various stages of undress.

The doctor is in the house.

Then the door to the bedchamber opens with a resounding crack as it bounces on the wall. The mistress’ son, nine-year-old Elbert, will be her undoing. She scrambles, leaves quickly, her things still at Geervliet house.

In the days to come, she lives in fear, waiting for the town to burn her, but – nothing. It is only when she feels safe, that the accusations are made. She is yanked out of her safe haven, and taken to the magistrate on charges of witchcraft. The young Elbert tells the town she danced on his mother’s bosom in the dark of the night when his father was nowhere around to protect them. His mother was in pain and calling for God. Apparently, _he_ was the next best thing. Eva, his mother, confesses to being swayed and influenced by the potions of the Devil’s handmaiden.

Phoebe pleads with her to let her take over, to burn these boneheaded ignoramuses who were salivating at the chance of burning a living, breathing person, a healer to a heap of ash. But, Marigje does not handover the reigns, the fool values their lives. But, if she lets the fire-spirit lose, their primitive minds _will_ have their proof. She cannot kill them all at once, those that remain will make certain she is dead. They have to plead her case and hope for the best.

* * *

By some miracle, the benevolence of a new magistrate and a skillful retelling of the night’s events, she lives. They are ecstatic. Marigje decides they will celebrate by having a day at the stream a few kilometres east of her home. She will feast on bread, cheese, some cured meats and then they will collect specimens at the bank of the stream. She is in knee deep water when a heavy hand pushes her in, she feels a knee on her back and another on her neck. She calls on the Phoenix, but Phoebe _knows_ this for what it is, the true death. The one meant for Marigje; she cannot help, even if she could, the water is a deterrent. It overpowers the fire and heat in her spirit.

She stays with Marigje, and then bleeds into the water when the light leaves her eyes. She sees his face, the husband – ‘killing for the wrong reasons’, she thinks to herself.

The water is another ether, a prison, the fabric with which its spirit is forged will be her own personal bedlam. She cannot escape it, not without a soul to ferry her through.

* * *

**_Purgatory, 2020_ **

Somewhere after watching Waverly leave with Annabel on her shoulder and murder on her mind, Nicole is lost to a cosmic Elysium. She floats with a heavy but gentle gurgling in her ears, perhaps the last of her neurons firing? Perhaps the music of the universe? She sees the most magnificent creature – fire red, wings of blue, intelligent eyes. It looks up at her lazily – unsurprised, unbothered, until Nicole look into its eyes.

It speaks, without moving its lips. _You can see me?_

Nicole’s face is overtaken by joyous surprise when she experiences something similar – _holy fuck, yes! Waverly’s going to shit herself!_

_I see mortals have only devolved over time, what a disgusting thing to do!_

_No!_ Says Nicole _it means – wow! It means this is unbelievable –_

_\- So, this ‘Waverly’, it won’t literally defecate where it stands?_

_She. She’s a she, and no she won’t. I’m Nicole by the way… –_ she rolls her arm forward as if to say “and you are?”

_I am Phoebe, the fire Phoenix, an ancient and wise spirit, lost to the river-fields of Elysium, a daughter of the…wait, why aren’t you trembling with fear or running in the other direction or…I would settle for surprised._

_First, can’t run in the water of the river-fields Elysium, I’m guessing –_ she waves around in the spirit-water for emphasis – _plus, by now I have a Ph.D. in weird. I’m a former Sheriff who now fights demons and monsters with her girlfriend, and her best friend, a Vampire and a Scientist with an empathetic crotch. I am unshakable._

Phoebe sighs as much as one can sigh under the fabric of mythical waters – _sounds fascinating –_ she scoffs – _and what pray tell are their names?_

A look of concentration overtakes her features, she is paler than when she appeared, a shadow-soul, becoming more and more of this world than the last – _I…I can’t remember. I can’t. What are their names? -_ She whispers her panic – _Why can’t I remember?_

The fire spirit looks at her with pity – _Elysium is taking hold, Nic-ole. Soon you will forget your mortal life and live one of happiness here, devoid of the pain of memory._

_No! No, I can’t stay! I have to get back! I did this to save them –_ she hesitates, confused – _to free them, no, me. To free me. To save them. Yes, that’s right. I have to get back._

She begins to understand Nicole’s circumstance. She has sacrificed herself for a loved one, or a family, a Waverly, who is a “she” and not an “it”. In the ebb and flow of this cosmic river-field Phoebe can taste the innocence in her soul, her bravery, her selflessness. For the first time in over five centuries, she feels something other than damp and diminished. In watching the mortal fight for her humanity, she feels fire.

_I have an offer for you, mortal –_ she breathes into Nicole’s mind.

Nicole looks up, fading still – _what offer?_

_You can stay here, float in the river-fields of Elysium till the Gods take your memory, or I can take you back to the middle world, to be with your Waverly once again, with your memory intact._ Phoebe’s offer is a generous one, she can live in the vast nothing, eternity has claimed her many times. But, this human is different, special – she stokes her curiosity, makes her spirit purr with a want for experience again. She offers a new world with demons and do-gooders, a strange world – where man sacrifices for man.

Nicole looks apprehensive, a little suspicion is natural – _why would you do that?_

_Because little human –_ Phoebe smiles with her eyes – _you killed for the right reasons._

* * *

Nicole breaks the surface, cold, shivering, herself – and more.


	2. After the Rescue: Checking-in/Checking-out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter picks up where 'Desperate Creatures' left off. I won't spoil that fic for you. 
> 
> This chapter's a bit of chaos and a character dive. We look at what goes on after the rescue. But, it also moves us towards the revelation, slotted for the next chapter. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read 'Desperate Creatures,' please do. This will make zero sense without having read it.
> 
> Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348161 
> 
> These characters belong to Beau Smith, Emily Andras, SyFy and IDW Entertainment. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> As always, mind all the warnings in the tag, leave a kudos and/or a comment.

Read [Desperate Creatures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348161%20)

* * *

The relief of having rescued her heroine from _Momster-in-Law_ is short lived; her love presents new problems and challenges. 

Happily-ever-afters take more doing than that in Purgatory. 

The drive to the nearest emergency room is hexed with fits and stops. Nothing assuages Nicole’s misplaced guilt as she directs an endless stream of incoherent apologies towards Waverly. The younger Earp re-pays in kind with whispered assurances to the tune of “Baby, you did nothing wrongs,” “it’s not your faults” and “I love yous,” but the redhead’s fever-addled mind is too far gone to receive absolution of any kind.

They stop twice for Nicole to bolt out of the car, the sisters in tow as she dry heaves at the side of the dirt road. Waverly looks at her elder sister with pleading eyes, as if the Heir can somehow magic the redhead back to health. Wynonna can only look on helplessly – her talents are all tied up in a mystical buntline designed to kill supernaturally predetermined evil beings (terms and conditions applied). 

Things are bad.

The second time they stop, Nicole dry heaves again, her belly is empty and her throat aches from writing checks her stomach can’t cash. On the way back to the car, with one arm over Waverly’s shoulder and the other resting on Wynonna’s, she collapses. 

The awkward dance of fitting the almost six-foot woman built like an Amazon into the truck has them both sweating and swearing. The Ex-cop has mentally and physically checked out, this is now solely the sisters’ problem. They rush her into the seat between them, leaning her on the younger Earp’s shoulder. Hushed and fervent declarations of love are the soundtrack to the drive for the next 15 odd minutes. 

For the time being the Heir hides her fear and frustration well, mentally battling the urge to jerk Nicole back to consciousness – _she’d_ rather prefer _she_ were unconscious, thanks very much, seems like the easiest gig right now. Her sister has already lovingly, but violently pinched the living daylights out of Ginger Spice a few times in hopes of waking her. Witnessing it definitely gave Wynonna sympathy pain. Not that it’s helped break the spell for fainting beauty.

The usually cool, calm and collected Wynonna. Fucking. Earp. Huntress of the supernatural, destroyer of demons and breaker of _the_ curse - misses the entrance to the medical complex not once, but twice. “For fuck’s sake, Wynonna!” – Waverly’s frustration is primed and ready to be used as a weapon to cut through all real and perceived threats including her sister’s bumbling incompetence. She will apologise when she knows Nicole’s brain is not about to melt out of her ears – _fuck_ , is that something that happens? – she passionately vows not to google it. 

Old blue screeches to a stop at the emergency trauma centre’s entrance with surgical precision, for a second the Heir forgets herself as she whoops her victory as if she’s won a game at the winter carnival. But soon they are both shouting for help, drawing the attention of the hospital staff walking around in the compound. They don’t know how consistently they explain what’s happened to Nicole, they did not bother to get their stories straight, but Waverly mechanically recites Nicole’s medical history once, twice, many times over to various medical professionals on the way inside.

Wynonna trails behind, her heart pounding, watching on as she reaches into her jacket pocket, quickly fetching a flask – a gift from Nicole the Christmas before last. She takes a sip, closing her eyes at the burn in her throat, as bold, unwanted tears escape them. 

' _Traitors_!' - She thinks to herself. 

* * *

They are escorted to the waiting room by someone from the nursing staff. They live up to their Purgatorian roots and reputation - loud and disruptive. Sweet sash-owning Waverly Earp threatens a junior doctor on call in all her five-foot, two inches’ glory - “are you _even_ out of diapers yet? You know you can’t fix her with Tik-Tok and T-swift, right?!”

Waverly’s arms are on her hips, Wynonna locks her arms into the shorter woman’s from behind, picking her up with ease and depositing her a few paces away from Dr. Howser. This guy, bless him, is definitely older than the younger Earp by at least half a decade _(easy!)_ ; the years have bestowed upon him the wisdom to shrink back in alarm. Self-preservation is nine-tenths, buddy.

“Alright!” - she whisper-yells into her little sister’s ear - “tone it down, terms of endearment! The doctor is just trying to help!” It takes a bit of cajoling, but she manages to squeeze an apology out of the half-angel-of-full-fury. 

Without meaning to, they’ve put on quite a show. The staff recognises them, but more so, they recognise the patient. Chatter around the floor reveals that while they were in the Garden, Nicole’s visits to the hospital were frequent enough for her to have charmed the nurses and doctors with her winning personality and dimples.

A few of them ask after Rachel. The whole thing pushes Waverly to the brink of emotional exhaustion. She cries while she waits, she definitely sobs into her coffee, and she hiccups into the phone as she calls Smalldez. Wynonna, enterprising as ever, hands her the flask and sure enough, Waverly cries as she downs the whole thing while the head nurse barks her disapproval. 

What a cluster fuck of fuckery. And, yet, so much more fuckery awaits. 

* * *

She’s never seen Baby Girl be _this_ still, like ancient buildings that crumbled in on themselves millennia ago – settled into ruins. It’s almost scary how much of Waverly is tied up in Nicole, one bleeds, the other hurts – to choose to love someone so much feels like a mistake.

Turns out, Waverly’s thinking the same thing.

“No matter what we do" – the younger Earp _finally_ breaks her silence – "no matter how hard we fight...we’re just cursed to be... _cursed_.” She hiccup-sobs into her fist – “this happened because _I asked her_ to marry me. Mama took her ‘cause she wanted to test _my_ fiancé. All our madness is going to paint a target on her back!”

It takes Wynonna a few seconds to process the complaint her sister mumbles into her upturned palms - “Baby Girl, you know that’s not true. Haught’s stubborn ass is going to be fine and you two will be mushing bits in no time!”

“Do you really think I’m thinking about _that_ right now?!” – she's irate; all she really wants to do is look into Nicole’s eyes and have them recognise her, hold her hands. _That’s it._ Sex can go fuck itself!

“Well, what do you want from me, Baby Girl? I’m scared shitless too, okay? Mamma’s almost third-degreed my future sis-in-law into a coma, you’re crying like an un-serviced fountain, and I just want that idiot to stop having near death experiences like they're a bag of hershey’s kisses she can’t put down!”

In this moment Waverly realises that, Wynonna’s affection for Nicole runs deeper than _she_ has cared to notice. On any other day, it would melt her heart.

The Earp Heir violently inhales through her mouth, ready to continue this awkward declaration of love, but a man in an authoritative long white coat cuts her off with a - “family of Nicole Haught?”

They both shoot out of their chairs, pained asses relieved as their nervous hearts skip a beat - “that’s us” - “we..us...yeah” - stiff, tired and teetering on the edge of emotional ruin, they get through the doctor’s spiel of “sorry for the long wait...short staffed…” yadee, yadee, yaadaa, till he gets to the relevant bit. Though repeated blunt force trauma is really bad, Nicole’s brain is _not_ Swiss cheese, yet. She’s got a mild concussion, dehydration and a re-emerging case of hypothermia, which _is_ a cause for concern. She’ll be kept overnight for observation, she also has really prominent bruising to her wrist and forearm. The younger Earp looks at her sister sheepishly; they both know her attempts to wake Nicole had gotten out of hand. 

The doctor walks away assuring them that his patient will get the highest standard of care. He's coached them on her at-home treatment plan and disappeared into some corridor, while the information he's spouted sinks in. After he leaves, the senior nurse on-call comes along to tell Waverly she’s allowed to stay the night with Ms. Haught - “as an exception.” Apparently, as a green deputy new to the force, Nicole had saved her sixteen-year-old daughter from a creep when Purgatory was still a normal-ish town (in its own Purgatory way) and teenagers hung out behind the school boundary wall. Following the incident, Nicole instituted silent drive-bys for everyone on that route. She let young Purgatorians make their dumb kid mistakes, her approach was non-invasive, non-alarmist – stepping in only when needed or asked. The story warms Waverly’s heart and makes the need to see her fiancé even more acute. 

They’re led into her room by Eugene, the ever-indebted nurse. The sisters are greeted by her lazy smile and sharp eyes. For the first time in a three and a half hours, the Earps don’t feel like they’re about to jump out of their skin. 

“Hey, Baby.” - she greets with a tired voice, but it is the music of the Gods to Waverly Earp. She walks over to her redhead with a “ _hello soldier,”_ as the Heir, for her part, deflates – all the tension leaving her body; she throws herself into the most uncomfortable looking sofa known to humankind. 

“You guys never fail to make me gag” - she judges from her perch. 

“Shut up, Wynonna!” - they whisper together into a very explicit and R-rated kiss. “Ahem!” - nothing - “ _Ahem_!” - the Heir waves her hands around for the two lovers to take notice - “seriously, _guys_ , am I invisible?!” - she shouts as a nurse walks by the window, staring daggers at her and putting a finger on her lip. It's a deservedly impolite and silent command for the Heir to shut up, proving her theory that a nurse is a secular nun. 

The two separate, too slowly for Wynonna’s liking. They take turns chasing lingering kisses till Nicole becomes too breathless for Waverly’s liking - “Baby, you’ll literally sex me to death” - she grins with bedroom eyes too expert for someone who’s in a hospital bed. Waverly scoffs a laugh at her - “as if! I’m going to fix you fast, so you can keep up with me” - 

“Vixen!” - accuses Nicole. 

“Oh-kay!” - the Heir shoots out of her seat - “Haught,” - she huffs forcefully - “I’m glad you’re not dead or comatose or whatever, and” - 

Nicole cuts her off playfully, hand on her heart, smirk on her lips - “be still my beating heart, for what poetry is this" - Waverly giggles like Nicole just said the most intelligent thing on nine planets.

They are dorks, Wynonna thinks - _her dorks_.

“Yeah, yeah” - the heir dismisses her, waving her off - “I’m going to go” - “You” - she points to Haught - “rest!” she commands. “You!” - she points to Waverly - “take care of this walking disaster of a human being! I’m going to bounce; I’ll pick you guys up at discharge o’clock.” She turns around, announcing “Wynonna, out!” with flare and drama, but just as she walks out she hears Waverly’s faint but pleased voice saying - “she called you her sister in the waiting room, you know?"

Haught is quick to answer - "yeah, well, _you_ proposed, so you Earps are stuck with me now!” 

The Heir turns around again, out of sight for the most part, but looking in on them, safe and happy, ( _and_ _horny?_ It’s never too far for these two, is it?), realisation blooms in her chest - their family is growing - but with that comes dread. She doesn’t fear change, she doesn’t anticipate her and her Nic-in-law rushing to split Waverly’s time down the middle, if anything, it’s Nicole she’ll be dragging away to dingy bars and cabaret caves - _no_ , it’s the notion of 'here’s another person to protect, to care for, to lose' that has her twisted up inside.

It paralyses her till she watches Nicole brush Waverly’s hair back behind her ear, trace an eyebrow with a finger and kiss it. The redhead looks up then and spots her, she winks at her. _Winks_ . At. Her. The audacity, the gall, the _chutzpah!_ Wynonna replies with a smile of her own, her hand automatically travels to the glass, touching it as if to establish some kind of physical connection to the two of them.

The viper hissing in her chest uncoils and slithers away. The curse has taken a sister from her; by fate or dumb luck, whether she meant to or not - Baby Girl’s given her another. And though Wynonna has always been a stubborn mule fighting to snatch its reins out of the hands of some cruel deity, this one time, she accepts her lot.

She and Nicole are now tied together. 

* * *

Nicole awakens late next morning to soft breaths tickling the baby hair on the back of her neck and a hand that’s travelled lewdly inside her hospital issued gown and taken hold of her right breast. As Waverly moves, her hand innocently brushing an areola, Nicole’s ladies puckers up. It really doesn’t take much with Waverly – minimum effort, maximum output, which is not to say that they are lazy...well sometimes they are, but that is _so_ not the point right now.

Her _Not Safe for Hospital_ thoughts are interrupted by a loud snore, she turns around quickly – alarmed and jostling the younger Earp awake; who also turns around to investigate the noise. What they see should surprise them, but it doesn’t. Awkwardly spread out on the two seater hugging the far wall of the room is the Earp Heir, snoring away to glory with her mouth hanging open. At some point Wynonna snuck back into their room to watch over them. 

They try to wake her with uncharacteristic gentleness, their hearts too full at this sweet gesture, till she quietly lets one rip and wakes herself up - a silent but deadly way to kill a tender moment. The rest of the morning is uneventful as Nicole is checked over once again by Dr. Howser, given prescriptioned, medical grade chemically heated blankets and strict instructions for bedrest and no strenuous activities for a week. Wynonna catches the disappointed looks on their faces, she’s a little sad for them too - _engaged and celibate_ \- it’s not exactly how the fairy tale goes. 

Nicole doesn’t make a peep about having to use the wheel chair as part of hospital policy – Eugene is scary persuasive. 

The drive back to the Homestead has Nicole’s head penduluming between their shoulders as she sleeps through every bump and harsh stop the roads have to offer. She talks in her sleep, Wynonna catches something about Trojans.

_‘Weirdest lesbian ever’ -_ the Heir thinks to herself. 

For once she is as on the money, as she is oblivious.

* * *


	3. Life & Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Earp sisters share libations and anxieties.  
> Waverly hits on Nicole. They talk. They are so gross, guys.  
> The Phoenix awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters belong to Beau Smith, Emily Andras, SyFy and IDW Entertainment. All mistakes are my own. If you enjoy this chapter, please leave a kudos or a comment.  
> If you can’t tell, I am practicing writing dialogue here, the previous chapter was a lot of action, and very little conversation (I see the Presley thing too).

* * *

Life and Death

Two-thirds of the Clantons are dead, their new heir hides. Everything is on pause.

The days are as vast and empty as the landscape Waverly calls home. The winds pick up most every night, biting at her cheeks as she sneaks out. The Homestead, its inexorable quiet, the deep, dark, blue plateau of the sky stretches, limitless. As a kid, they terrified her. Always so big, passive like the dead; little Waverly felt so much smaller in comparison. Sometimes the silence would break, rain, a hissing fire licking at the dry, decaying wood – the usual suspects. But sometimes… _sometimes_ , it was heavy footsteps and whispered shouts as Daddy swayed from one perch to another like a drunken elephant trying to keep itself upright, pawing at some woman he invited over – graceless and unhappy. On nights like those, she was happy she was small and easy to ignore.

She grew up needy. Always looking for love, for adoration, for approval – fatherless, motherless, never certain in the friendships afforded her, the affections granted. Somewhere deep inside, in some un-shifting part of herself she knew right from wrong, she knew her worth, but she compromised anyway. Kept quiet when others tittered at the Earp name or when some feckless newbie showed their face on the playground or, years later, in the parking lot. 

But now, as she steals a few moments away from the bustle of the Homestead, plucking the braver pieces of herself off the back of the howling night wind – she cannot imagine being unloved or forgotten in this or _any_ universe. Now, she pays the price of being the center of someone’s universe – watching the woman she loves beat down by chance and choice alike.

With Nicole, where there was doubt, there is certainty, where her relationships were once shallow, now there are newer depths waiting to be explored. There is hunger, greed, frustration, anger, _love_ , so much love. They’ve suffered through terrible things and people and they’ve found each other, and in doing so, they will live fully, as two complete people – growing together without fear of change. They _can_ have it all, if only her fiancé will stop being a self-sacrificing _horse-butt_ and talk to her.

* * *

The door to the Homestead is flung open with a loud bang, clapping thunderously against the wooden wall - “ _Oi_ , shorty!” Whisky in hand, Wynonna bulldozes over her think-time. There is a smile on her face, a skip in her step, and not an ounce of remorse for startling the younger Earp. A not so gentle _thwack_ reverberates throughout her being as big sis smacks her on the ass.

A sibling’s love is a curious thing.

The Heir leans in repose on the porch banister, facing the younger woman, her eyes piercing - “what twisted sack of sad is rolling around in that big brain of yours, Baby Girl?”

“It's _nothing_ , Wynonna,” she dismisses with a sigh as she continues to look at the horizon. There are things you never put into words for fear of them being heard. What if some malevolent, omnipresent agent of fate takes a magnifying glass to their lives? Burns them like ants in the dirt? An Earp knows a few things about self-fulfilling prophecies _…well…_ one of the Earps does, anyway. 

“Now _that_ is a load of bull!” - the Heir sing-songs, her eyes in danger of rolling out of her head - “the Nicole drowning herself thing has you all twisted into knots and you’re too _chicken-shit_ to talk to Haught about it.”

“Anyone ever tell you, you are as subtle as a wrecking ball?!” – Waverly grimaces as her voice goes a touch higher. She snatches the whisky and takes a fortifying gulp. She is about to be arm-twisted into _talking_ , she knows it, and so, she hates it more for knowing it.

She drinks and drinks, they are playing the quiet game. Who will break first?

It’s Wynonna; she breaks first, no surprises there.

“Subtlety’s for suckers, Baby Girl!” Wy smiles and bumps her shoulder, forcing her to finally surrender her attention and look into outrageously blue, empathetic eyes.

For having missed most of her formative years, it’s not fair how well her elder sister knows her. The thing between them transcends time, presence, blood – she was Wynonna’s from the day she was born. Named by her, loved by her, protected by her – _damn her_ , how long has she been drinking this cheap swill?! 

The younger Earp turns on an angle, facing her sister - “ _yeah?_!” – Does she sound drunk? Maybe a little; maybe _just enough_ – “Of course _you’d_ say that! Mama probably beat you to the kidnapping and torture.”

The Heir wrestles the bottle back from her sister, they tussle, but the moment the amber nectar sloshes over the lip of the bottle, splashing Waverly’s shoe, they freeze in fear. New house rules drafted by one Nicole Haught, Lady of Stickup Her Assland, dictate that booze is _not_ to be wasted. In Purgatory, it’s the first victim in a looting type sitch, and it’s fucking hard to replace.

The younger Earp concedes a battle well fought, putting her hands up in surrender. She’s not happy about it, but better her sister drink the whisky than her shoe.

Wynonna laughs, victorious, the fire in Waverly’s eyes and the sharpness of her tongue amusing her – “to be fair, _I_ would have waited till she was well enough. I kind of feel like I’ve got to make sure she won’t fall on her own sword, you know?”

She’s _kidding_ , sort of.

Waverly grunts her annoyance, her sister’s hit a nerve and they both know it. She puts her palm out in a side-ways claw, waiting - when the whisky became a talking-stick is anybody’s guess. Booze passed, a generous gulp taken – “I feel like she’s punishing me for going, for being in the Garden for so long. But, I didn’t know…”

Exploiting the split second it takes the younger Earp to take another drought of alcohol, the Heir draws in a loud breath, ready to rid her sister of this notion, but she’s cut off quickly. She’s clearly underestimating the speed at which her sister can get tanked.

“No!” – Waverly puts a hand on her shoulder – “hear me out, dammit!” – She shakes her.

Wynonna waves a hand in a ‘you may proceed’ motion; the younger Earp is primed for confession, she is on the right side of tipsy and ready to spill her emotional beans.

“She’s avoiding talking about me-in-garden-time” – she points at herself like Wynonna is made of idiot and dressed in stupid – “and her-in- _here_ -time” – she points to the ground.

The Heir’s eyes fill with compassion, so much so that she lets the younger Earp boggart the booze, she allows herself a smile – “maybe because it’s hard to talk about, Baby Girl.”

“No. _We_ talk. We made a promise, we…”

“…You made a promise a year and a half ago,” – she interjects – “Waves, things have changed. She’s been alone, with a sixteen year old for a sidekick…”

“Rachel’s great, Wy” – she protests lamely.

“No, you’re _right_ , she _is_.” – Wynonna nods her assent, “but, it wasn’t Smalldez Haught’s been waiting for, for eighteen freakin’ months, Baby Girl” – her voice is full of desperate insistence.

“But, why won’t she talk to me?” – Big, unfair, cartoon tears hang at the corners of Waverly’s eyes, totally annihilating her sister.

“Nicole is good at rules, systems, control, management, taxes” – that gets a laugh out of the younger Earp – “she’s a structure loving dork, look at what she’s built here.” She points at the crazy new security measures and strategic additions to the Homestead. “She has you back, it’s all she’s wanted and I don’t think she thought she would, you know? I think she might be scared that if she starts talking, she’ll never stop, or that she’ll say something that cuts you, or gives away how deep that hole she fell in was.”

“Do you…” – Waverly hesitates, fear makes her heart stutter – “do you think she _doesn’t_ want to be with me?! Is it too much, you think?” Alarm and panic flash across her face as she takes another gulp of liquid courage.

“No. _No_!” – Wynonna’s pretty dang mad at her own tactlessness, of course Waverly’s mind goes to the _nuclear_ option. Pulling the bottle out of her hand, she keeps it on the floor. She takes the younger Earp’s hands in her own – grounding her. “Are you _kidding_ me with this right now? Little miss moral-center used Doc as a bargaining chip, cutting back-alley deals with _the Clantons_ , and she totally put herself up as collateral. And, have you _forgotten_ that Haught’s agreed to marry you, you fucking doorknob!” She whisper yells into her sister’s face.

A drunken smile illuminates Waverly’s face under the pitch black night sky – “she _did_ , didn’t she?” She sighs dreamily.

“Yes, she did. Now _focus_ , dude!”

“Right, yes...” – Waverly takes a deep breath and puts her hands on Wynonna’s shoulders, squeezing them – “okay, lay it on me; give me your broken-hearted wisdom! I’m ready.” She looks downright studious.

“Broken-hearted wisdom?” the Heir makes a face like she’s sucked on a lime; this is _so_ not the time to get into her and Doc, and that was _definitely_ patronizing. She shakes her head to rid herself of any John Henry Holliday nonsense. “You are pissing your pants because you somehow, very stupidly _just_ realized that _you_ are Nicole’s line, her self-destruct button – very _un-you_ not to know that already, by the way. And, news flash, Baby Girl, she is yours.

Personally, I think if a human being is not coming out of you, they shouldn’t have that kind of power over you. It really seems like a design flaw, you know?”

Waverly blinks, big doe eyes searching for meaning - “So…you’re saying she’s _not_ mad at me?”

 _“Dear God, fuck me!”_ The Heir clenches her fists, exasperated. “I’m saying it _doesn’t matter_ if she is or isn’t. I’m saying she’s just as in love with you, as you are with her. Whatever’s got her granny panties in a twist – you can’t pull it out of her like a rotting tooth. I’m saying that you guys are two Vs in a pod, and you’ll figure it out.”

“Her underpants are _really_ sexy, you know?” – Waverly makes an ‘ok’ sign with her hand as she clicks tongue and _winks_. In this moment, she feels it’s really important to set the record gay.

“ _Ugh!_ ” Wynonna supplies, not too gently flicking her on the arm – “Waves, you _need to_ hear this part, okay?” – A hiccup, followed by a nod will have to do as proof of her sister’s totally undivided attention – “I’m telling you that, we were gone for _eighteen months_ and she waited, now, maybe it’s your turn to wait.”

Wynonna picks up the bottle, turns to enjoy the night sky once again; letting whatever they’ve discuss sink in. She can tell it is _a lot_ for their resident genius.

For her part, Waverly feels deflated. Her sister’s sage and unfortunately sane advice is to wait, to comfort and coax without manipulation. For once, she’d hoped for some of that Earped-up energy, a twisted nugget to blow through Nicole’s walls like dynamite and fix whatever is bent out of shape.

She’s missing parts of Nicole – those that made her brave enough to be vulnerable around Waverly. She wonders if they’re just hidden beneath the trauma or gone forever.

Some nights she wonders if she’s a terrible person for wanting it back so desperately.

She turns, looking at the cold countryside, a sky littered with stars.

Out on a date, while star gazing, Nicole had once told her that you could never get this view in the city, but the redheaded had been looking at her; flushed, shy, with a wry smile on her face. Her meaning was clear. They’d made out like teenagers that night, excited by the electricity humming between them, giggling at things that weren’t really funny. She’d never experienced attraction like that before – so many possibilities ready to be touched, to be tasted.

She felt a sharp square object nudge her arm, Wynonna somewhat violently offering her the bottle, bringing her back to the here and now. She takes it with a mumbled thanks – “what about you and doc?”

The Heir freezes, the tension in her body evident – “what about us?” – an edge in her voice.

“I mean” – Waverly hedges, you don’t want to spook a wild animal – “I mean…ever since the magpie ranch…”

– “We’re not like you, Baby Girl” – Wy is quick to cut her off.

The younger Earp bristles – “and, _what_ does that mean?”

“It means, we just…” – she sniffles and scoffs, wiping off an offending tear with her thumb as she wrenches the booze back from her little sister – “we just can’t get it right! We’re not like you and Haught.”

“I never expect you to be” – Wynonna cocks an accusatory brow at that – “ _hey!_ I don’t. It just seems like lately, things are somehow worse between you two, and I just want you to be happy, Wy.”

The Heir sighs, leaning her head on Waverly’s – “I know, Baby Girl, _I know_. But, sometimes I think being born to peacemaker, and being happy are mutually exclusive.”

“Don’t say that” – Waves pulls her into a half hug, squeezing her shoulder – “whatever it is, you guys will fix it. We’ll make him understand. I know you Wynonna, I know what you did was for us, _for Alice_. Doc will see that. You are the farthest thing from evil there is.”

The Heir lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding; there is no greater balm for grief than being loved _and_ understood. It is rare to receive both at the same time, especially from family.

“You know the same goes for you right?” – Wynonna whispers, holding the hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah” – Waverly breathed – “I’m sad, but I’m not conflicted. It was _Nicole’s_ life, Wy, I wasn’t screwing around. She put that curse calling card or whatever on Nicole’s photo, and I didn’t have a choice. I know you think I snapped, but it wasn’t like that. I went there hoping not to kill her, but _willing_ to. I gave her a chance and she picked death. I made it her’s. I can’t apologize for choosing Nicole.”

“I know, Baby Girl, and don’t let Haught tell you, you shouldn’t’ve done it have for her.”

“Oh, no” – she snorts – “I shut that shit down. She is worth a thousand Margo Clantons. We argued a little, but it ended with her with thanking me…” – she _winks_ – “if you know what I mean?!”

“Trust me, Waves, we all have had the crap fortune of knowing what you mean. You are not quiet, or discreet.” She screws up her face – “frankly, it’s disgusting.”

“We are quite _dirty_ , yes.” – Waverly deadpans.

“Oh, _horff!_ That is _it!_ This night is over! I have to officially wash my brain with whisky! When did you become such a sleaze ball, dude?!”

Waverly opens her mouth to answer.

“No…don’t answer that. I am equal parts proud and horrified, Baby Girl.”

Waverly chuckles – “I’m just really into her, okay? Like, I really like her.”

“Mhmm…” Wynonna hums. She has a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes; it’s what Waverly calls the typical Wynonna, as she gives her a parting kiss on her forehead. “Okay, _Drunkey!_ “ – Wy disentangles from their hug. – “Go in then, be with this girl you _really_ like,” she teases.

“I will!”

“Good!” - The Heir starts pushing her towards the door.

“I’m going! _I’m going!_ ” – she’s pulled in for a last backwards hug as Wy whispers a “goodnight, Baby Girl” into her ear and shoves her into the Homestead. 

* * *

She dumbly turns back and waves goodbye to Wynonna’s receding form. Her sister’s probably the only wild animal who sleeps in a barn. It is late; making her way inside on stealth-mode is proving to be difficult – she has had an _Earp amount_ to drink. She shuffles her feet over the overwrought wooden floors under the false impression that somehow her footsteps will prove louder. _This_ is not better, as Rachel will remind her tomorrow after the tumult of the attack and the shock and upset of death settle.

The stairs creak louder than usual, clearly going against her request to “ _shhhhhhhh_ , please!” And, she was being _so_ polite too. She toes off her boots outside the bedroom she shares with her fiancé. Somebody please pinch her, or you know, don’t; if this is a dream, it’s a nice one. As she peers inside, hugging the wall, the sight in front of her loosens the knot in her chest, and gets an entirely new and different kind going somewhere low in her belly. Warmth spreads across her body, whether it’s the whisky or Nicole, she couldn’t say.

It’s definitely Nicole.

Her fiancé is sat up against the headboard, dozing with a book in her hands, her mouth slightly open with reading glasses that seemed to have slipped down the bridge of her nose. _Those_ are a revelation, and totally Waverly’s new kink.

She crawls up the bed with all the poise of a new born foal and whispers a breathy “baby wake up” in the redhead’s ear; further jostling and cajoling yield negative results. As a final resort, she keeps a bit of distance between her and sleeping beauty, and pinches her nose shut. It only takes a few seconds for Nicole to wake up with a start as she snorts and grunts for air, hand feeling for the sawed-off long arm usually kept next to her side of the bed. As the sleep-fog clears and the panic subsides, her eyes make out the shape of Waverly Earp sitting in her lap.

Her heart stops racing with fear and starts racing with lust; a lazy, sleep kissed smile blooms on her face – “hey, Baby. What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” – Waverly’s eyes are clouded with drink and a little shame – “you were being cute, and I really wanted to talk to you, so I woke you up.” She feels dumb for having woken Nicole up now; she didn’t mean to scare her.

“Oh,” – the redhead frowns – “that’s okay, baby” – she squeezes her waist – “I love talking to you.”

“When did you get the glasses?” An almost indiscernible heat and blush travel up to the tips of the younger Earp’s ears and colour her cheeks.

Indiscernible to _you_ , Nicole can make a career out of all things Waverly Earp, thanks very much!

“About eight months ago. I was getting these headaches, only while reading really fine print, mind. I found these in a trunk in the barn, actually.” She took the glasses off, holding them up for the other woman to inspect. “They’re a little stronger than I probably need, but they do the trick.”

Without preamble, the brunette leans in to capture Nicole’s lips in a hungry kiss, but her libido comes to screeching halt when she gets a closer look at the spectacles – “these were Gus’ from when she was younger” she says, as the redhead opens her eyes and comes out of her duck-face-in-wait-of-a-kiss pose.

“Oh” – she puts the offending article aside, looking like a kicked puppy; those are definitely not going to be making an appearance in their fun-time bedtime activities.

“We can get you new ones from the ophthalmologist in town!” Waverly squeaks with excitement. Hope springs eternal in the hearts of the young and the horny. Nicole pulls Waves firmly against herself, their chests brushing against each-others’ in exquisite torture. The redhead lazily bites the brunette’s lower lip, tracing its shape with her tongue, tasting the bitter essence of some liquor. Waverly takes in a sharp, short breath like an Olympian swimmer about to dive into a pool. Their lips crash together, tongues dancing, and what a performance it is.

Waverly leans back to undo the buttons of Nicole’s sailor moon pajama top. “These are cute,” she huffs out as she rakes deliciously sharp nails over the redhead’s flushed chest, tracing the top of a breast, running a thumb over her favourite freckle; there is an undeniable heat rising between them.

“You are _so_ hot, Haught.”

“Thanks, Baby, so are you” – Nicole leans in, poised to take Waverly on a masterful journey to absolute bliss when said woman pushes her back unceremoniously.

“Whoa! _Hello?_ ” She protests as the younger woman starts checking her pulse and puts the back of her hand on her forehead to check her temperature – “ _rude!_ ”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but I think you have a mild fever, and I just remembered the doctor hasn’t cleared you for strenuous activity, yet” – the half angel recounts guiltily as she clumsily dismounts her Sheriff. Yes, her baby is _still_ the Sheriff in their bedroom, and hopefully, soon out of it too.

She searches the side table for the medicine prescribed for just such occasions – sudden spikes and anomalous fluctuation in body temperature. She successfully, if a little uncoordinatedly, fishes it out of the drawer and hands it to her apparently ailing lover, pointing at the glass of water kept on Nicole’s bedside table.

“You _just_ remembered that, did you?” Nicole asks sardonically, a single perfectly shaped eyebrow punctuates the question as it rises towards her hairline. She accepts the pill, swallowing it quickly with a sip of water; it’s rote muscle memory at this point – taking meds from the brunette.

Insisting she was fine and worrying Waverly would be cruel, she’d already done it enough as is; she’d vowed to avoid it whenever possible.

Waverly huffs out a sigh of relief as she watches her love take the pill without any fuss. Nicole had been steadily getting better and in couple of days they would be at the week mark, at which point they would go in for another checkup. They’d had many false starts and stops since the drowning and the _‘friendly’_ abduction – unable to properly celebrate their engagement.

Rachel called it karma for having too much sex in too many places in the Homestead. In reply, Nicole had observed that _her_ bed was still virgin. A serious threat had been issued, green to the game, young Valdez quickly made for her room to sit vigil on her bed, guarding it’s sanctity against them. 

Earlier in her recovery though, getting Nicole to refrain from constantly manning traps, going on patrols and just slowing down in general had been an uphill battle for everyone on the team. It was a group effort, with the younger Earp leading the charge on the ‘enforcement of relaxation’ in her own Waverly way. 

Nicole had spent the last few days as the reluctant stuffing in a blanket burrito of her fiancé’s making. Any attempts to escape her new circumstances were met with glassy eyes full of unshed tears, a wobbly lower lip and just Waverly star-fishing on top of her.

These and other signs of devotion, the redhead happily endured, for only a fool would complain.

Pill popped, they let the heat and lust simmer to something more manageable. Doctor’s orders aside, they are not having sex tonight, though not for lack of trying. They both scoot down the bed, automatically drawn towards one another; they get into a pretzel formation. They lay on their sides, legs entangled, faces close together, arms and fingers intertwined – intimacy can be many things. They take a minute to just look at one another as Nicole brings up the brunette’s hand, kissing it – “you said you wanted to talk, babe” – she whispers, night has descended and the Homestead’s quiet must be preserved.

“Hmmm…” – Waverly hums till the redhead tugs her hand a little, forcing her to come out of whatever conversation she’d been having with herself in her head. “Oh, yeah” – she remembers with a cute yawn – “yes, I wanted to tell you, that it’s ok that I’m the line and you’re the button.”

Nicole chuckles – “ _what?_ Baby, you are not making any sense.”

Waverly glares at her with faux annoyance – “I spoke to Wynonna, it’s cool. Have you noticed you are always warm these days, like more than just my bonus blanket kind of warm? You just concentrate on getting better” – she affectionately pats the older woman’s cheek.

“Okay” – the redhead agrees skeptically, she’s not sure what is happening, but if Waverly’s made her peace with _lines and buttons_ , then she’s not going to stir that pot at two in the AM.

She ain’t dumb as shit, ask anyone! Well, anyone who isn’t Wynonna Earp.

The wall clock, watching over time from before the two of them were born, is like a beating heart in their ears; they are close, warm and content. Nicole’s eyes begin to droop, until a sleepy, small voice chimes in again – “you know, I love having sex with you.”

The older woman smiles again, her eyes popping open, bemused. She scooches forward, gentling kissing Waverly on the nose, earning a soul deep smile in return. “You know” – Nicole mimics – “I kind of gathered that from all the times we did it.”

Waverly nods her assent – “ahaan. I _really_ like sex with you” – but then she hesitates, her brow furrowing as she tries to figure out how to say this next part without the redhead shutting down – “but, I don’t like it when we use to avoid talking.” There, she said it, it was out there now; she has to try, _doesn’t she_?

Turns out, she doesn’t have to try too hard.

“I know, baby” – Nicole’s voice is laden with real remorse, soft, it takes on a pleading quality to it – “I know, and I’m sorry, okay? I just…I’ve been pushing things down and missing you for a year and a half, and it was only two days for you. What if I’m _too_ intense or I scare you away, so I…” – she stops abruptly, unable to find the words.

“So, you’ve been telling me with your body?” – the brunette says , somewhere between understanding, concerned and confused.

“ _Maybe?_ I don’t know. Look around you, Waves. I didn’t mean to, but I built a shrine to you. Everything is in place; your clothes are classified by make and material and kept in protective covering. I kept hoping you’d come back, but I didn’t even know if you were alive.” She takes a shaky breath, late night confessions aren’t for the faint of heart.

“Nicole” – Waverly whispers, wiping a tear off the redhead’s cheek – “we don’t have to do this now, okay? We can do this at our own pace. There’s no rush. I’m not scared of what you’ll have to say, I can take it. I’m not scared _of_ you, baby, I’m scared of losing you.” Waves’ grip on her the other woman’s hand tightens a fraction. “And, I am not going anywhere, not without you.”

 _“No?”_ – Nicole cries, totally doing a number on some foul, twisted beast in Waverly’s chest that howls in pain. It clenches and unclenches in her throat. What a fucking dick!

She takes a moment to compose herself – “no, you absolute fool. I am tits deep in love with you” – she insists. “I am marrying you, like, _soon!_ Before a cartoon terradactyl flies down and carries you away into an overgrown nest! You are a _disaster_ , my love” – she teases, tucking an errant strand of red hair behind Nicole’s ear. She caresses her cheek, inviting her into a chaste kiss.

Nicole’s lashes flutter into the kiss, she sighs, feeling some of the weight lift off of her chest. They separate, breathless. “I just need you to be patient with me. Sometimes I still look for you in my dreams, or even when I’m awake, like the book I was reading right then? It has notes in the margin, in your hand. I don’t’ know why I’m doing these things when you are right here.”

Not for the first time, Waverly finds herself tearing up at how alone her fiancé must have been - “I love you, Nicole Raielly Haught and you can take all the time you need. We can keep talking. You’ve always made sure we move at my pace, baby, but we can move at yours too. Don’t feel bad for asking for time, okay? I am here and I’m yours; whatever you need.”

Nicole pulls her closer still as Waverly throws a leg over her hip. The redhead puts a hand on her waist, caressing the skin above her hip, warm and supple.

“I think, I’m just getting used to loving you from up close again” – the redhead confesses.

They stay like that, till they succumb to sleep.

* * *

Raucous thuds on the staircase break her out from a dream-prison about some far away kingdom reined over by a cruel man on another shore. She doesn’t mind. She did not care for it – this dream. She shakes Waverly awake as she reaches for her weapon, she can hear Rachel shouting her name as she runs up the staircase two steps at a time. Young Valdez skids to a stop right in front of their room, just now realizing that the couple inside fornicate like teenagers from a movie in the 90s, something the Heir is educating her in. A skill that couldn’t be more useless in a situation like this.

“How many?” - Nicole asks as she’s putting her boots on, peripherally aware of the fact that she missed the sound of whichever trap their attackers have tripped. Waverly’s frantically retrieving her coat from the closet and pulling various weapons out of a box kept below her clothes. She smiles dangerously as she turns around – “you home improved my half-staffs?”

Nicole stops for a second and beams at her, Waves’ noticed the jerry rigged trigger on the insides of the staff that launch tiny, but lethal blades at the tips for those hard to stab places – “yeah, do you like it?”

“I love ‘em, baby, thank you!” – her voice drips with adoration.

“Oh my God! Why are you guys always trying to get into each-others’ pants all day, every day!?” – Rachel whines and an appropriate level of urgency returns to situation. “Four” – she shouts – “maybe…five.” She starts climbing down the stairs, the others follow close behind.

“Any idea _what_ they are?” - Waverly asks, keen to know how they are placed.

“They are trying to be stealthy”, Rachel answers, voice quiet – “the advance is slow, and I don’t think all of them have side arms, they are carrying things like axes.”

The three women are at the door now; Rachel turns around, anxious, leaning into the redhead. “They’re big, Nicole, no way they’re human.”

That gives them all pause.

“Text Wynonna” – Nicole whispers as she casually pulls lil’ Valdez away from the door, taking the lead.

Waverly makes a face, “I’ll call her.”

“No!” The redhead’s voice carries red hot disapproval making the younger Earp recoil. Nicole pinches the bridge of her nose – “I’m sorry, Waves, I didn’t mean to snap, I…I just mean, if they hear Wy’s phone ringing in the barn, they’ll know for sure there’s someone in there. Right now, they may not know that, we have a tactical advantage. Wynonna stays up late; hopefully she’ll see the message. Or, the fighting will wake her. Either way, she’ll have the element of surprise.”

“Okay,” Waverly sounds skeptical, but starts writing to her sister.

“I’m texting Doc and the Jeremy” – just as Rachel announces this, the lamp on her bedside table goes out, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen dies suddenly, and most importantly the flood light outside the Homestead sputters and goes out.

Rachel meeps in fear, but Nicole is quick to run to the kitchen and retrieve bullet-proof vests and assault rifles with lights attached to the scopes. She hands them out like candy. The items are a bit oversized for the shorter members of her party, but it’s better than nothing.

“If you use the light” – she whispers – “they’ll know where you are too, so make every shot count. You two move together, Rachel, give me cover fire, Waverly, you keep firing at them. I’m going to try and go around the long way to the barn.”

Both women open their mouths to protest, but Nicole is quick to cut them off – “Hopefully it’ll wake Wynonna if she isn’t already awake, we’ll pursue from the back, and you guys can push from the front. If they are not human, we need Wy, and we need peacemaker.”

“Okay” – Waverly nods.

They execute their tasks to the tee. Rachel and Waverly push the porch furniture (also additions made by Nicole) in front of themselves and Rachel starts laying cover fire after Nicole hops over the porch rail and starts running in a big circle, cutting around the assailants, unnoticed. Just as she makes quick work of reaching the barn, the Earp Heir leaps out of the door, gun at the ready. 

There are a few retaliatory shots, seven to be exact. The brutes, there are four, slow down considerably, before finally going down in a hail of gunfire. Nicole turns around, hearing four heavy bodies fall to the ground like sacks of rice. “That’s it? _That_ was the attack?” – she thinks to herself as a sense of unease washes over her. 

Even though Nicole strongly cautions her against it, Wynonna begins to walk towards the bodies, which have all fallen in a tight grouping. Waverly and Rachel also join, though they have the good sense to keep their guns at the read. The Heir uses her boot to roll one of the brutes over, his (/her/their/it’s? Who the fuck knows!) arms look like they were made with branches tied together into a solid assemblage, the legs are definitely tree trunks. They are all a cold blue colour, and the bullet holes they’ve suffered all ooze what could only be sap.

“Back in the dirt, ugly!” – Wynonna rolls him back with a kick and a grunt – “ _welp_ , that was anti-climac” –

The tree monster she just kicked back into place takes a hold of her shoe, pushing hard, forcing her to fall face first into the dirt, it climbs on top of her back, takes a hold of her gun hand and slams it in to the ground.

The other monsters all stop playing possum at the same time, one swipes Nicole’s leg, and climbs on top of her as she falls on her ass.

The third launches itself low into Rachel’s legs, the leverage toppling her on to her back, it climbs on top of her. She reaches for the gun on her right and starts shooting in to him indiscriminately. The monster stops, looking bored. It bats the gun away, her hand hitting the ground and the gun discharges a final hail of bullets into the back of the monster Nicole is currently wrestling.

The fourth monster sets its sights on Waverly; she was the farthest away from the rest of them. As it stalks closer and closer, she empties her gun into the damned thing – “this is not what I’d imagined Groot would be like!” She throws the gun at tree monster number four. She un-holsters her half-staffs, poised for a close quarter fight.

Meanwhile, Rachel’s opponent has managed to drag her away, and seems to only be interested in keeping her detained. It only reacts when she moves or squirms or tries to get away – “we do not care about you. You can live.” It says in a deep, sandy voice nightmares are made of. “ _Oh, yeah?_ And why is that?! – she shouts, squirming under his weight as she fishes a knife out of the side of her boot. “Mistress Clanton wants the Earps’ heads, and if not the Earps, then the redheaded law-keeper and we do not kill children.” 

Rachel feels his weight almost double on top of her as his grainy, scratchy body suddenly bumps into her, “anyone ever tell you, you talk too much for a tree?” It’s Nicole with her arms crisscrossed over its neck, pulling it back, even as it’s jagged wooden veins cut into the skin on her arms and the side of her face.

Monster number three howls, enraged. It pushes off Rachel, who finally feels like she can breathe, and stands, walking backwards, while it jerks the redhead around like she is a ragdoll. She doesn’t let go, even as it unhooks its axe from its belt and unsuccessfully tries to swing it backwards. Nicole parries by blocking its arm, taking hold of it, using the monsters own momentum to bury the axe in its lower back. It shouts in pain, going limp, and falling backwards, taking Nicole with him.

There is a loud and sick crunch as hundreds of kilos slam Nicole into an uneven surface. Her arms and legs immediately fall away, her grip slackening. Her vision is overtaken by black spots as the night sky goes in and out of focus.

She hears Rachel shout for Wynonna as she feels the monster get up once more, he’s saying something, but she hears him like she’s under water. He’s lifting his foot up, positioning it above her face as he continues talking until a startling crack sharpens her senses. Some part of her brain recognizes the noise as a gunshot, as she sees the monster before her fall back on its wooden ass and spontaneously combust into a blue fire, she knows the Heirs come through.

“Mwaa-haa, asshole” – Wynonna directs a mirthful shout towards the burning arbor-monster – “monologuing is reserved for the main cast only, dickhead!”

She sprints towards Nicole and Rachel, who’s sitting on her knees next to the redhead. Another set of feet run towards them. Waverly is there like she rode on the wind. She unceremoniously falls to her knees and leans over her love, assessing for injuries, but she can’t really see anything, until she unfastens the bullet-proof vest, switches on the torch mounted on the gun to take a closer look and pulls up her shirt.

“ _No_ ” – she whispers, an ache painting her voice.

“What is it?” – Wynonna asks, harsh, as fear and helplessness battle for dominance.

They all hear tyres crunch on pieces of gravel in the cleared drive-way leading up to the Homestead’s main door. The headlights of Doc’s prized metal steed flood their senses.

The boys run in, leaving the lights on as they see Wynonna, Waverly and Rachel huddled over Nicole’s prone figure. They come closer, Jeremy placing a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She takes hold of it immediately, standing up straightaway and twisting into a hug as she buries her face in his shoulder, and balls her eyes out.

The Heir turns back and barks orders - “Doc, call an ambulance, now!”

John Henry simply takes his hat off and places it on his chest.

Wynonna is livid – “put your damn hat back on, you blood sucking asshole and use your fucking phone. Call a rig, now!” – She shouts, squeezing her best friend’s hand.

“Wynonna” – he whispers brokenly – “I’ve seen wounds such as these before, my love. There’s nothing to be done.”

“No. _No!_ ” – Waverly murmurs, her voice low as she looks at her fiancé’s chest and belly, they’ve become tight and black. Nicole’s breaths grow shallower and shallower.

It’s a massive internal bleed; everything is minutes away from being over.

She bends down closer to Nicole, who’s only been able to say her name on repeat, her last moments calling to Waverly and only Waverly.

“What, baby”, she asks lovingly – as she tries to put on a brave smile for the dying woman.

Waverly caresses her cheek, thumb lovingly swiping over her lips. She bends down, bits of stone send pain shooting into her knees, but it’s nothing compared to this. To watching Nicole disappear, and all her hopes and dreams for their future evaporate in a haze of blood and death.

She kisses her love, maybe for the last time and looks into Nicole’s eyes; they are glassy and unsure, full of fear. Nicole yanks her forwards with the last of her strength as she continues to try to speak to her. Blood bubbles at the corner of her mouth.

On the other side, Wynonna’s hides her face in the redhead’s hip as she howls and cries and cusses. Nicole’s hand continues to run through her hair in series of stuttered starts and stops.

Waverly puts her ear to Nicole’s mouth in an attempt to catch her last words. She hears her wheeze, it’s the sound of a death rattle.

Nicole manages a sentence – “get back, don’t swallow.”

The younger Earp looks up into her fiancé’s face confused and utterly devastated. Nicole’s eyes are wide open, her pupils blown up as a blue spark traces the outline of her irises, Waverly moves closer to her face to observe – “what the fuck?!” – she whisper-yells into an impassive face.

“What?” – Wynonna asks as she’s pulled out of her grief at the alarm in her little sister’s voice – “what is it?”

“I don’t know, I thought I…” – she cuts herself off as she sees veins of gold begin to run all over Nicole’s skin, the hand she is holding becomes scalding hot. She drops it, too hot to touch. A fire starts somewhere in the middle of the redhead’s chest.

Wynonna yelps, as they both crab walk backwards and away from the body, heartbroken and perplexed in equal measure. Jeremy and Rachel jump back as well.

The fire consumes the body in its entirety; it burns in a flash and dies as it is transformed into a grey swirling cloud full of burning ash, till a tornado of light blinds all of them. There is an ugly whine in the air; the unbearable light dims with every passing second.

Waverly and Wynonna are the first to see it as they uncover their eyes. In front of them all lay Nicole Raielly Haught, with more and more ash turning into skin, adding to a full body halo.

They crawl back to her side. Waverly puts two fingers on her neck, she checks for a pulse and breathes a sigh of relief when she finds it. She falls into the hollow of the redhead’s throat as the rest of them look on.

Jeremy peers over them from above, swallows when he gets a glimpse of a newly reanimated Nicole – “that is two boobs more than the number of boobs I ever wanted to see.”

* * *


	4. Not an Update, a Letter to the Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update coming soon.

Dear Readers,

This year has been one of Draconian Laws and law makers finding firmer ground in my country and the medical infrastructure failing us at every turn.

It's been one that's been book-ended by personal loss. 

On 31st December, 2019, I lost my maternal grandfather. Dadu was a brilliant, kind man; an engineer and a chartered accountant from whom I inherited my love of reading. He would tell me stories of growing up dirt poor in a village in Bengal, fighting to get an education, evading the British, fooling them into doing the villagers' bidding, like having them drain lakes and dig canals by targetting informants with misinformation (the rebels have stolen guns and thrown them in the lake, buried them in a field). Evading them by dressing up as fish-monger women, the smell kept them away. 

He made me fall in with love with stories, writing and folk music. Never discriminated against me because I'm a girl, like a few people would do in the family. The loss is deep, but his stories live with me and my family.

Then I lost my job to the pandemic. I found another, it pays half of what I made, but I am confident I'll get another where the pay is fair. I've turned down offers which are out of state because I'd rather be home and with family than get paid more at this point. Something I wouldn't have had to consider a year ago. 

Now, my father'd been in the Covid ward for over two weeks. The day he came back home, we had to tell him my uncle, his eldest brother, had passed in the Covid ICU ward the same day.

My uncle knew a lot about our family's history in Burma, before the nationalisation forced them out and they became homeless overnight. Stories of loss and survival and reinvention. A lot of our personal, familial history will disappear with him. Pieces of who we are, where we come from. 

The crematoriums in the city I live in have a waitlist. People are dying faster than we can give them their last rites. 

I sat down to write yesterday, but my father's had to be hospitalised yet again because of post Covid complications. 

I am not abandoning this story. I just wanted to let you all know what is going on in some states in India, and if you are facing the same thing in some other part of the world, losing people and jobs, your physical and mental health...I want you to know you are not alone and it's okay to take a beat and stop and feel things, or not - don't force anything.

For now, I have started writing again and I will be updating this in the new year. 

Till then, I hope you all are kinder to yourselves for the remainder of this year and the next. 

Thanks for reading.


End file.
